A Matter of Inconvenience
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: Olivia returns, but what about Elliot and Dani? ElliotDani, ElliotOlivia


_Thanks to Mary for the beta. She's pretty much uber awesome._

* * *

The pint of malt scotch whiskey certainly didn't help a thing, except for giving his frontal lobe a strong kick with a steel-toed boot. He hadn't drank it all, but had left some dregs clinging to the bottom of the curved glass, just enough for a shot or two if the dialogue in his head refused to let up.

It had been unabashedly stupid, what he had done with Dani. Elliot hadn't really thought about it at the time, had just rushed to make some sort of salient move as his beer buzz began to wear off. The offer of a movie and another beer-maybe a pizza too-back at his place had seemed innocuous enough, but when they ended up horizontal on his thrift-store-sofa, one of his hands tightly cradling her ass, he knew it was all shot to shit. And Dani was a smart woman, so she didn't ask him to stop, just pressed harder into his hard body and whispered to him _just_ how she liked it.

Later on, just as the first fingers of dawn were clawing at the horizon, he had noticed that she smelled of patchouli and that her hair, even after the hours they had spent moving between the sheets, wasn't tousled in the least; it was, however, pulled from it's elastic and was scattered haphazardly across the pillow she had chosen.

That should have been clue numero uno: Dani had taken the left side of the bed and that was his side. When she had awoken and deigned to grace him with her wakeful presence, she didn't press a kiss to his lips or comment on the activities that had taken place mere hours before. Dani, in her naked glory, had stated that she "needed to pee" and hopped from the bed to search out his bathroom.

He'd fallen for her a little, at that moment. And when she came back out and walked directly to the bed and straddled him, that made him fall just a little more. "You're very good at what you do," she whispered as she lowered himself over him, "In more ways than one."

She drank his disgusting coffee and avoided talking about the sex in favor of discussing the new pitcher that the Mets were thinking of acquiring. And the disgusting coffee that she was drinking, well, she took that black, just like Olivia didn't and it was a breath of surprisingly fresh air. When she got hungry, she offered to make him eggs and he let her cook for him, sitting on a bar stool, watching her finger a whisk with ease.

Dani grabbed everything she could find and threw it in: mushrooms, onions, tomatoes and she finally stopped her mixing after adding a dash of Tabasco. Smothering the mixture with cheese, she served it up, steaming, on one of his better plates and they ate it together. It was raining outside and they were eating eggs around his cluttered kitchen island.

It felt entirely too right, and that was why it felt wrong.

She took a shower and left without leaving him with a kiss, but forgot her panties and he couldn't decide what to do with them, so he kicked them under his bed and tried to forget that the things-black lace, shit, so hot-were there.

Like a good girl, she didn't show any outward emotion at work, not the slightest intimate touch was bestowed, and he liked that too.

But after shift, when they found themselves pressed against the side of a nondescript building, dry humping and clawing at scalps desperately, he was sure that he'd fucked up royally.

Two more times inside of her and he started hitting the bottle, finding the hard stuff much more effective when he wanted to forget what she felt like. Needed, that's what he thought, he needed to stop thinking about her and remember who he was forgetting. A woman with softer hair, softer curves, softer eyes, harder disposition.

Sometimes, when he found his vision swimming and his head screaming he would take to the internet and make feeble attempts at seeking her out. Sometimes he'd pick up a phone and call the Bureau, only to be sympathetically rebuffed. Hell, at least when she came back, he could look her harshly and tell her that he tried to find her, no matter how half-assed his attempts were.

The pint of malt scotch whiskey certainly didn't help a thing, it never did. It certainly didn't help his already-queasy stomach. He hadn't drank it all, but had left some dregs clinging to the bottom of the curved glass, just enough for a shot or two since the dialogue in his head wouldn't let up.

They went down smooth and hit his esophagus hard, causing his stomach to roil and his eyes to roll. Too drunk, too desperate, too despondent, he didn't want to answer the door when he heard the soft knocking.

Fucking doormen were no fucking good.

It went away and his apartment fell back into peace, the air feeling solid and cool on his body, felt like static when he breathed it in. The knocking started again, this time more insistent. Elliot was in no mood for a more-than-friendly-fuck and felt like telling her so, but he refused to get off of the couch.

The scratchy sound of a key sliding easily into the rusty lock made him perk up, reach for his hip only to remember that his holster was on the floor. Sluggishly, he turned and fumbled, unclipping the gun with practiced ease, raising with a shaky arm towards the door.

She slipped around the edge of the door quietly, like shadows sometimes did, and closed it with just as much care. He made out her form in the dark, and began cataloguing the shape that was in front of him. Curly hair, but not tiny, messy ringlets; large, soft twirls of hair falling over slender, full shoulders. Rounded hips, like she'd put on a few pounds and a swelling of thighs that led down long legs.

It seemed that he'd drank enough to make his new partner transform into his old one. Elliot almost laughed at himself; who knew booze could perform magic?

"Gonna shoot an unarmed man," she eventually said, just loud enough so that she wasn't whispering. Halted in the entryway to the living room, Olivia leaned her body into the support beam and waited for him to sort out what exactly he wanted to say.

He blinked and lowered the weapon, snicking the safety back on before putting it back down on the floor. "You're not armed?"

Olivia pushed herself away from the wall and found the nearly-empty bottle on the ledge over his bricked-over fireplace. After looking down at him in amusement, she tipped her head back and swallowed what was left of it.

She didn't cringe; he liked that.

"Tell me that bottle wasn't full when you started," she pleaded and moved to brace her hand at the end of the mantle.

Elliot blinked, licked his chapped lips and settled himself so that he was sitting evenly on the sofa, "Okay."

If the situation had been lighter, if her hair had been shorter, if she was the same person that she had been before she left, she might have left, but instead she just smiled and rounded the couch to sit herself down beside him. "I'm sorry," and no explanation of what for, because they both knew what she was apologizing for, towards what end she was striving.

Then came the slap in the face; Elliot's mind was playing catch up with his mouth, the booze had slowed him down, slugged him across the jaw and had left stars dancing around his head. He knew what he was going to say before he said it and he couldn't stop it, "Oh, you don't have to apologize to me," but he kept the other half of the sentence, the "I have someone else to apologize to me now," out of it.

And it worked, slammed right into her cheek, leaving her visibly shaken, "Alright… alright then," and Olivia stood much like Dani had that first night when they'd been together. "I'm sorry I came."

He was on his shaky feet in a matter of seconds, shoving her against the wall with strong arms. But he wasn't angry, and it wasn't rough, it was… intense. Her ass hit the wall first, tailbone catching the brunt of the force. Out of instinct, her own hands came up and grasped his biceps hard as her eyes went so wide he was sure that you could serve coffee cake on them. "You never said… never said goodbye," he choked out.

"Couldn't," she said honestly, voice clear and loud for the first time since she had spoken.

Eyes going to slits, he gathered what he could about her face; not scared, not apprehensive, placid, ready to fight, or to flee. "I'm… sorry."

Without missing a beat, steadying her gaze on his, and going slightly rigid in his grasp, she spoke clearly, "I'm not."

And that singular truth was more than anyone had ever given him; she knew it was the one thing he didn't want to hear, but she didn't bother masking it with big, pretty, eloquent words, she told it how it was.

The longest, shortest silence followed her declaration and left them staring at each other as though they'd entered into a contest. A second later, his eyes flickered south and then back north; Olivia's lip quivered. "Don't kiss me."

"Alright," he whispered. Leaning in, he rubbed his cheek against hers, the stubble dragging. "Alright," he claimed again and progressed up to her temple, hairline.

Breathing labored, her hands went slack on his biceps and trailed down to the crook of his elbow. His hands relinquished their grip on her arms and slid to her hips, pressing them towards his. Both groaned at the sudden contact, the blatant heat.

Nose in her hair, bottom lip just skirting her brow and she, lips so close to his chin, they breathed desperately for a few quiet minutes before he risked a gentle kiss to her forehead and pulled back.

She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, "Good."

"Yeah," he breathed and watched as she walked to his door. "When are you coming back?" he called in slight, panic desperation as she reached for the handle.

Olivia didn't bother looking back, couldn't meet his eyes. "I don't know."

Elliot's face dropped as he walked around to the couch and slung himself back onto it, "Alright."

And then she was gone, leaving him to wonder if she'd ever been there at all.

As he fell asleep, he weighed his options and hoped she didn't come back at all.


End file.
